


A Name is a Fickle Thing

by Biweatherman



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Trans Character, Trans Clayton Sharpe, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25879591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biweatherman/pseuds/Biweatherman
Summary: Clayton had never been one for fanciful notions. He couldn’t afford to be. But he did have one indulgence, one thought he kept coming back to when he couldn’t sleep, a question he kept asking himself on the nature of names and the power they hold.Because what does a true name mean to a man who has so many?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	A Name is a Fickle Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom so any comments would be greatly appreciated!!

Clayton had never been one for fanciful notions. He couldn’t afford to be. But he did have one indulgence, one thought he kept coming back to when he couldn’t sleep, the chair shoved under the door handle providing him with little comfort. Especially when he was dealing with the monsters in his own head as well as the ones outside his door. So, on those nights where he would find himself staring up at the ceiling, unable to get his mind to truly quiet, there was a question he kept asking himself on the nature of names and the power they hold. 

He had heard about the fae from a group of Irish workers, their voices carrying clearly over to the corner of the small saloon in which Clayton had been nursing his whiskey. The alcohol they had consumed had made their stories difficult to follow, but one thing had stuck in Clayton's mind. 

The idea of true names and their power. 

And when he couldn’t sleep in whatever cramped room in whatever run down saloon he would find himself in, he would always wonder what his true name was. After all, when you had as many as he did, that question became complicated. It became important. 

He knew that it wouldn’t be the one he had been born with. That had never fit him. Even before he had realised he was a boy, he had never felt comfortable with that name. Overly religious and long in a way that meant the name itself almost seemed to take up more space then Clayton did. He could always tell, even as a kid, that it took people a few seconds to connect the name to him. When teachers called out attendance their eyes seemed to settle on every other child in the schoolhouse before settling on him. 

No, the name chosen by his parents for the idea of a girl he could never be, would never be, was not his true name. It was a name that had fit him as badly as the dresses he had been forced into. And it had no power over him, not anymore, not since he had discarded it on the side of the road as he left his family home forever.

It was a name that held a life of getting married young, having and looking after a brood of children and living and dying in the same town he had been born in. A fine life, but not for him. A life that made his skin itch anytime it was discussed. 

He had always wondered why until he had put on his father's clothes, grabbed off the washing line as he walked away from that life. He had told himself that he was dressing like that because it was safer on the road to look like a man. This was true, but it was also true that every time someone addressed him as “boy” or “young man” the knot in his stomach unwound slightly, and was replaced by a warm flash of joy. 

He picked out the name Amos Kinsley after only a few days of being on the road. 

So maybe that was his true name. Picked after he had begun to understand his true self. It was a strong name. Masculine. Fitting for the young man he had been, full of bluster and bravado, a desperate mask to hide how lost he still felt. 

It was certainly the true name of the man, the boy, he had been. A teenager so desperate to finally fit in that he was willing to overlook the fact he never felt comfortable with his new ‘family’. He was willing to ignore the small pit in his stomach whenever he was around them. He was willing to suppress the urge to constantly look over his shoulder or sleep with one eye open. He was willing to act more and more reckless in order to prove himself worthy of their company. 

After all, back then he had thought himself to be invincible. He was free from the bonds of home. He has suffered through his trials, and this was his reward. And he was emboldened by the confidence of the others. 

He hadn’t made the mistake of carelessness again. He stayed away from groups, sitting aside from everyone, perfecting scowls and one sentence answers to turn away even the persistent of people hoping to gain his companionship.  It was just one of the many ways to keep safe, along with the gun he kept a split second from his hand at all times, or the chair shoved under every door, or the way he never turned his back on any entrance if he could help it. Some would call it paranoia, he would call it common sense. 

So no, the name of Amos Kinsley was not his true name. Not anymore. But it was true to the boy he was.

Other times he wondered if Clayton Sharpe was now his true name. He had certainly worn it long enough. 

And he liked it. It had a simple, matter of fact nature to it. Far from the hopes of his first name, of a pretty daughter and later an obedient wife. It was equally far from the overconfident strength of Amos. 

Instead it was a fine descriptor of who he was: a person moulded into something sharp. Maybe he should have resented the way the world had turned him into a weapon, at some point he was sure he had. But there was something to be said for the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. The whiskey he would indulge in, in a quiet corner of a saloon enjoying the heavy weight of gold in his pocket, so different from the raucous celebrations he’d partaken in as a kid. More fitting for his personality. 

In fact, the entire life he’d built for himself was more fitting for his personality. He liked the quiet, the solitary nature. It had initially been for safety but it suited him. The allies, friends, he was finding in Ally, Miriam, Arabella and the Reverend, was changing that, slightly. But their companionship was quiet too, and despite the short time they had known each other the trust they held seemed to run deeper then anything he had known before. Like everything else, they suited him. He was content with the life he had built under the name of Clayton Sharpe. He would have liked that name to be his true one. 

But life is cruel, and as it turned out, it was the name of Amos that had power over him. It was that name which had the ability to take everything from him. It was that name that had a former ally, a possible friend, calling him into the street. It was that name, and the decisions, the mistakes, made under it that cost him his life. 

But maybe he would have taken some small comfort in the fact that the stone marking his resting place in the graveyard of the small town of Deadwood stated his name to be Clayton Sharpe. And it was under that name that he was remembered by and mourned for by four friends. Maybe that was truth enough. 


End file.
